Covering Up
by Fjallsarlon
Summary: She covers up for him. He never asks. Or: Eva and Neil, and the aftermath of To The Moon.


**Covering Up**

Summary: She covers up for him. He never asks. Or: Eva and Neil, and the aftermath of To The Moon.

* * *

She covers up for him. He never asks, but as much as Eva'll nominate Neil for the position of Village Idiot or the Most Likely To Have A Stupid Accident in SigCorp, even he can't miss that.

They don't talk about it, though. They never do.

Johnny made all the arrangements and signed all the forms. He wanted to be buried beside River, out on the cliffs by the lighthouse, and knowing what she does of the man, having glimpsed his most private of memories, Eva wouldn't have expected otherwise.

She doesn't quite expect this: to find Neil strolling back into the empty house, the tell-tale bulge of the bottle of painkillers in his coat pocket. Is it her imagination, or is his breathing heavier than it should be? Does he look a little more tired— _wan_ , her mind supplies—than he ought to be? Strictly-speaking, it's none of her business: Eva makes it a matter of strict personal policy to never mix personal with professional, but Neil has a habit of breezing through the boundaries. He's always very bad with the rules, when you think about it.

He raises an arching eyebrow at her scrutiny. Bleary-eyed, she finishes scribbling down on the second-last set of forms. Just one more to go, she thinks. Sometimes, it's amazing how much time they spend filling in reports and forms as compared to actually dealing with patients. "You're tracking dirt everywhere," she says, sharply, for want of something to say.

Neil grimaces and pulls off the rough work gloves he's wearing, one by one, but only succeeds in smearing dust and soil on the pristine white of his coat. "So bill me for it," he says, unfazed. "Oh wait, graves don't dig themselves, and no one here was going to do it."

Sure they weren't, she thinks, but doesn't say it aloud.

"Is that coffee?" he sniffs the air, an exaggerated gesture. "'Cause I could really _kill_ for some coffee right now." He reaches over to the tepid mug sitting on the dining table and Eva slaps his hand away. "Hey, that hurt!"

"Baby," she rolls her eyes. "Go make your own. You've already had yours, this is mine."

"See if I don't," Neil grumbles, stomping off to the kitchen. "Right after I get all this dirt off me. I signed up to make old geezers happy, not to get down and dirty digging holes."

Two weeks ago, he'd said that he'd signed up because there wasn't anything else he could do with his doctorate, and the week before that, it was because he'd liked the idea of sitting on a swivel-chair in air-conditioned comfort, feet on his desk.

Eva does snort this time; quietly, to herself. It's not like she can't detect bullshit when she hears it, there's just no point in calling it out. She turns back to the final form—the actual report, and begins filling it in with the dilligent, careful meticulousness she applies to everything.

She makes it halfway through the report before Neil clomps back through, tracking water this time, with a steaming mug of coffee.

"Do your report," she says, barely glancing up. "The tow company came and went, Roxie's coming down to give us a ride, and we owe her four tubs of ice cream, so you better not be spending that pay."

Neil slumps in one of the chairs—slumps, or collapses? Eva can't stop herself from wondering, and this is why she never wanted to know, never wanted the personal to dig its hooks into her tidy professional life—and smirks. "I didn't make that promise."

"I could always remember that you crashed the car while turning a squirrel into roadkill," Eva says coolly, and watches as Neil's shoulders slump in defeat.

"All right, all right, I get it, geez, Eva!" he snorts. "You don't have to play dirty, you know." Balefully, he eyes the stack of spare forms stacked on the dining table and gingerly grabbed one and produced a biro from his coat.

"I wouldn't have to if you—da—cucumbers, Neil!" she watches in resigned horror as he breezes through form after form, scribbling a few illegible comments here and there in thin blue ink.

"You could swear like a normal person, you know," Neil says, conversationally, as if dagnabbit is much better. "And I'm done!" He produces the final report and signs off on it with a flourish.

"Unlike some people," Eva replies, acidly, "I have an impressionable young nephew."

"He isn't here right now, is he?" Neil responds, reasonably. She tugs at the reports and forms he's done and begins to feel the twinge of pain right between her eyebrows, though perhaps it's just from the all-nighter they've pulled, trying to make Johnny's wish come true.

"'See Eva's report,' isn't what you're supposed to be filling in," she informs him, tartly. "And I'm not even sure it's possible for your handwriting to get any worse."

"You read it. S'good enough." Neil yawns; she's not sure whether he's faking it, or genuinely worn out. He hasn't even really touched his coffee yet. "M'tired. Gonna nap for a bit. Wake me up when Rock gets here."

Eva doesn't even bother telling him he can't, because it's not like Neil's going to listen anyway, and true to his words, Neil just keels over and places his head on the table and is out in a couple of moments. She wishes she had that knack for falling asleep anywhere: normally, she can't do it; she needs a comfortable bed and a blanket, or at least a soft armchair with cushions.

She finds herself wondering if there's anything behind his exhaustion, or if the cause is perfectly mundane; finds herself comparing his extravagantly oddball and slipshod behaviour to how he used to behave, and finally pinches the bridge of her nose with her free hand, wishing she had something for the impending headache.

Not Neil's painkillers, she tells herself firmly. She doesn't play around with that kind of medication.

She disciplines her thoughts; she isn't going to start speculating on his health, on whatever the _fluff_ he thinks he's doing, even though her thoughts keep wandering in that direction, unbidden, and sets about to the task of writing on spare sheets of paper what should really go into Neil's report.

He'll just have to copy it out when he wakes up, Eva decides. And if he can't even do that, then she's not going to haul him out of the fire this time.

* * *

Neil wakes to find Eva slumped over at the table, a stack of reports at her writing hand. He tugs lightly to get them out from under Eva's arm, and then again, until they finally come free, and Eva lets out a soft snore.

Night-shifts, he thinks again, reminded of his earlier question. Love 'em or hate 'em? He's an owl, but night-shifts are horrendous without coffee, and he doesn't have to ask to know Eva _detests_ night-shifts with a burning passion.

But that's why asking her's half the fun, of course. He'd just never expected their patient—previous patient, now—to be so…taxing.

He checks what Eva'd written down, in neat letters, and nods slowly to himself. That sounds about right: summarising how Johnny's wish had gone, absolutely nothing about their fight over how to go about fulfilling it, with the terse note about how they should've been informed about the beta blockers in an appendix, along with the appropriate space for Neil to insert the name of his contact in Research.

Truth is, the paperwork bores him, and he's never asked Eva to cover for him, but if she is doing it, it seems a waste to rush about self-destructing with another snarky report and incident form that both Compliance and their immediate boss would froth at the mouth over.

He'd never asked her why, though. He wonders idly if he should, but decides that question leads to places he isn't going to go to. Nope.

He finishes copying out Eva's reports and forms—technically his—and adds a few rhetorical flourishes and omitted half a dozen formalities because otherwise, Compliance would _never_ recognise it as his work. He's even burned through the two tepid cups of coffee and made himself another because there is no such thing as too much caffeine, jeez.

He yawns as he finishes and stretches and then winces at the pain in his back. He's been sitting in that chair for too long, just about.

His hand goes, almost-immediately, to the bottle of painkillers in his pocket, but his mouth firms and he shakes his head. Not right now.

Instead, Neil checks in on Eva for a moment—still sleeping—and then trots wearily up that interminable flight of stairs to deal with packing up the equipment. He finds Lily there, still tidying up Johnny's room and bed. Soon, he thinks, there'll be no sign of Johnny left: just the two graves at the lighthouse.

Dust in the wind, all of them.

"Hello," Lily says, sweeping at the floorboards. "I didn't touch your machine. I thought it was better that way."

"That's fine, thanks," Neil says. He doesn't mean to be curt, he just…ah, it's been a long night, in too many ways. He moves over to their equipment and runs a quick check and then begins the delicate process of modifying the logs. Compliance will check, of course, and then send the obligatory forms to Johnny's lawyer for acknowledgement, but he's a wizard at this at the very least and he carefully snips out the logs of his fight with Eva and weaves fragments together smoothly and then deletes traces of his meddling so all the system records now is that Eva faithfully carried out the contract and Neil backed her up on it. As usual.

He snorts; bullshit, of course. But he knows, doesn't need Eva's scathing, shouted reminder, that he's been walking on thin ice for a while now, and he supposes if she's going to all the trouble to keep him from getting fired, he ought to reciprocate.

She doesn't ask him, of course, and he never volunteers this information either.

Finally, he dismantles the machine, part-by-part, until it folds neatly back into the brushed-silver carrying case. He realises—too absorbed in the process, initially—that the scratching sound of the broom has faded into silence but Lily is still there, watching him.

"What?" he asks, running the back of his hand along his forehead. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to thank you," Lily says, firmly, broom in hand. "I'm glad to know Johnny died happy…with no regrets." She smiles, but her eyes are brimming and God, Neil _hates_ these kinds of conversations the most of all, because they get under your skin and threaten to slice you into neat little pieces inside but there's no running away from this. "He never really said it, but you could tell he was unhappy, in the last few weeks…" She trails off, and tries again. "It means a lot to me that you let me see his last moments. That you gave him a good end." Her mouth quirked in a smile. "And thank you for burying him."

"All part of the service," Neil shrugs, carelessly. Too carelessly, because Eva'd called him on it, and you _had_ to build those barriers high in their line of work, or you'd find yourself crumbling everytime you went through someone's memories but even then, something about Johnny and that starry night in Johnny's memories had lodged inside him, like a fish-hook, and squirm as he might, it'd become personal, all of a sudden, and he can't _help it_.

Maybe the old geezer reminds him of his grandfather. Sure. That's it.

"Even so," Lily says. "At least let me cook you both something before you leave."

He smiles. Tries his best to, anyway. "Sure, that'd be great. Thanks."

* * *

She must've dozed off herself, even with the coffee, and Neil, fluff it all, was right about the lullaby of ocean on rock. By the time Eva yawns, and wakes up, her eyes feel terribly gritty, but at least the incipient headache appears to be gone.

She smells it before she sees it—not roadkill, thankfully!—but the delicious scent of eggs and bacon frying.

"Tadah!" Neil waves it before her, a white plate stacked with eggs and bacon and tomatoes and Eva's stomach growls, even before she can say anything in reply, reminding her she hasn't had very much since they started work, just a piece of dry toast, snatched while Neil had his coffee and they found out about the beta blockers.

Eva glances suspiciously at the laden plate. "You didn't make it, did you?" she wants to know.

Neil rolls his eyes. "So what if I did, huh?" he responds, tapping a foot impatiently against the tiled floor. "I told you, I like cooking in groups. I could make you an omelette so fluffy you'd think you were eating clouds!"

"So you didn't make it," Eva reasons, taking the plate from Neil. He almost drops the cutlery, but she snatches it just in time. After all, this omelette doesn't look very fluffy at all.

"No, Ma did," someone else interjects. The girl, Sarah, pokes her head out of the study. She clutches the worn stuffed platypus at her side. "Ma's real good at cooking."

Neil deflates. "Way to go, kid," he growls, turning away. "Weren't you and your brother sick?"

"Yah," Sarah nods. "Hard to sleep with both of you being noisy though."

Eva just smirks as Neil splutters, and digs into the meal. She's about done, when her mobile rings. She glances at the number before picking up. It's Roxie.

" _I'm coming by in about fifteen minutes,"_ Roxie informs her, after they exchange greetings. " _Get your things packed, okay?"_ A wry note enters her voice. " _Tell Neil Robert isn't with me."_ She hangs up.

Neil raises an eyebrow. Waiting. "Well?"

"It's Roxie," Eva says.

"Is Robert coming along?" and Eva almost laughs at how predictable Neil is, in some respects.

"No, and she knew you'd ask. She said he isn't coming." She glances down at her watch and shovels the last bite of egg into her mouth. "We've got fifteen minutes."

"I've taken care of everything," Neil says. He gestures to the packed-up equipment, back in the brushed-silver case, and the paperwork tucked away in the black leather briefcase Eva carries around. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to see it?" he demands, impatiently.

Eva doesn't have to ask what 'it' is. She considers it, but Neil must already know the answer even before she vocalises it, because he springs to his feet and practically drags her out the door. Sometimes, Eva reflects, her nephew behaves more mature than Neil does. She's not sure whether that's an indictment of Neil, or glowing praise for her nephew.

Both, maybe, she thinks. Or neither.

* * *

All things considered, it's a beautiful day, if gusty, and she finds herself staggering more than once along the cliffs towards the lighthouse.

"Needs a tombstone," Eva comments, seeing the odd-sized stone that she supposes is Neil's idea of a makeshift grave-marker.

"Lily'll manage," Neil yawns again. "I'm sure they've got something planned already." He shook his head. "Horrid place to bury someone, though."

Not that it'd stopped him from chipping in, Eva thinks. She doesn't say that.

'Needs flowers, too," Eva comments.

"You going to go pick some?" Neil regards her, eyebrows quirked in a silent question.

Eva shrugs. "Why not?" she murmurs. There are wildflowers growing, all about the lighthouse. She picks a few of them, a bright glorious purple like the flowers Johnny once picked for River, and rifles in her pocket for her spare hair-tie to bind them together in a sort of bouquet, and then lays them before the marker-stone.

They stand there for a long while in companionable silence.

"Another successful case," Neil says, at last. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his white coat. "Another satisfied client." He looks over at her. "'Cause we're awesome."

"Yes," Eva replies. Recognises the offering for what it is. "We are, aren't we?"

His grin is brilliant as he gazes at the two graves and Eva wonders what it must've cost him, digging that second grave so close here to the lip of the cliff.

Her phone rings, all of a sudden, startling her out of her thoughts. She checks the caller—it's Roxie. "We'll be right out," she says, and then hangs up.

"Rock?" Neil asks.

Eva nods. "Let's go."

"Race you to the car!" Neil declares, and without bothering to wait, takes off.

 _Idiot_ , Eva thinks, exasperated, but nevertheless, she sprints after him.

* * *

The setting sun paints everything in shades of fierce orange and burnt umber. The children, now hale again, and chattering excitedly, lead Eva to where Neil is—not unexpectedly—standing before the two tombstones by the lighthouse.

A fresh bouquet of flowers has been placed before Johnny's grave, but Eva's sure that if she quizzes Neil about it, he'd tell her that he has absolutely no idea what she's talking about.

"Here he is!" Sarah yells, skipping from one rock to another.

Neil turns, looks at her as she comes down along the path, the dying light glinting off his spectacles. His expression is unreadable.

"Thanks," Eva says firmly, and before the children get underfoot, "Off you go, now."

They take off, scurrying past the trees, probably off to play more games. Or to whatever they do in their spare time—Eva isn't sure. She inhales a lungful of briny sea air. Little has changed, here, since their last visit. Neil's clumsy marker-stone has been replaced by a proper tombstone to match River's, and the flowers are white now, but other than that…

"I still can't believe Johnny just willed the house to Lily like that," she remarks.

"Heh," Neil scoffs. "Who else was there to give it to? Us?" He looks at the graves, and then over, out at where cliff gives way to rolling waters and then even farther, where ocean meets the sun at the far horizon. "Terrible place for burials, though. If there's a landslide, they'd be swimming with the fishes."

She rolls her eyes. "Still a little too soon," she informs him.

Neil pretends to consider that, but then shakes his head. "Naw," he says, his voice light, unaffected. "It's never soon enough."

Her phone rang, interrupting them.

"Nice new ringtone," Neil smirks. He recognises the tune, of course. The question is whether he's going to be a pain about it.

She ignores him. "Hello, Eva here."

It's the office, and she'd figured that they were lucky enough to get a free moment to pop down and check in on Lily and the kids…and Johnny. Seems like it wasn't going to last. She listens intently as they give her the details of the new case, replies with a terse, "We're on our way," and hangs up.

Routine; please give her an ordinary, boring, routine client who wants to be a famous rockstar or something like that.

Neil studies her, intently. "New patient?"

"New patient," she agrees.

He nods, gravely. "Let's roll."


End file.
